—This isn’t good, I said. What about Arles? Aligre. The good places.
—You don’t remember Arles? he said.
—Enlighten me why don’t you.
—You really don’t remember?
—How many times do I have to say it?
My insides shrivelled—my heart the size of a dried pea—when Jerome told me that I had been pregnant.
This is how he remembered it. The sense of anticipation to the trip was similar to the eve of a birthday or the build-up to Christmas. True, we had not been getting on, but peace had been restored in expectation of a weekend of hotel tomfoolery. Jerome’s words. Part of him—his words, again—was in love with me. On our day we were every inch the loving couple.
Then the story lunged forwards.
I became distressed in the Nord-Pinus. Jerome was confused but I knew what had gone wrong. Not until he started to freak out did I share what was the matter. Two weeks before we went Arles, I had found out I was going to be a mother, but the cramps I had been experiencing privately for days were worsening and I was bleeding so heavily that the blood ran all the way down my legs. With the bleeding came the possibility, finally, that something was the matter. It would have been better if I had gone to the bathroom sooner, he said. He said I came across as careless somehow.
I felt a roar in my head when Jerome said all this—a mesmeric roar that said I was to blame, as if all this had come about as punishment for a brief and dizzying cameo of happiness. Apparently I put up with the discomfort for a few more hours without saying anything to Jerome. Things grew cloudy and that evening I had to ask the owner of a local restaurant—Loïc presumably—to get me to a doctor where I was given the medication I needed. I then told Jerome the uneasiness that had been consuming my body had subsided. But I had been only five weeks pregnant and by his logic it did not matter that much—it was more a question of putting it behind us.
That was it, Jerome assumed. His delivery made it seem like he was hoping for nothing more than a clear conscience and the confirmation that I had been treated cordially. When we returned from Arles, we just got on with things. This is what you are supposed to do when one of you is married to someone else.
I asked Jerome for a few minutes to myself. I toured the apartment. Here and there I saw where Ghislaine’s life had been carefully removed. In the kitchen I stood at the sink and filled a glass of water, grateful that it was water. All that talk of alcohol and being pregnant had made me feel anxious. Besides. I was suddenly starving, too. The butter was runny in its dish and behind some strange poultry there was a jar of Nutella which I knew I liked. I ate and ate. It didn’t matter that I was using a licked spoon to eat from the jar—something Ségo wouldn’t have tolerated—because I didn’t intend to leave any behind.
Who remembers what they ate when they first went on a plane? The name of the boy christened next to you? Would I look back at my pregnancy and the end of it and think of Nutella?
When I had eaten all that I wanted to, an image—dark at the edges—came to mind. A bedroom in my old place on Rue de Bac. Between the heavy curtains and the dimmed lights I couldn’t get a sense of the time of day. There was music playing and I could see myself in the bath. I could feel the rich steam and the water was creamy with my rinsed-off body lotion. In this scene, Eagleback was standing at the door. There was something else on his mind that we needed to discuss urgently.
Then Jerome entered his own kitchen with a bewildered look. I didn’t say anything. It was easier to wait until he was able to speak, to tell me that Ghislaine was on her way upstairs.
Ghislaine flipped when she saw me in her kitchen. Three words were all it took to send her over the edge. You Need Nutella.
I wouldn’t leave. There was an incident.
Dear You
Her cobbled street was still and eerie. Ségo acted as though it was such great news that I’d turned up at her door on the stroke of midnight. She stepped forward and wrapped me in her arms. Her smell was sweet onions and it was the best smell in the world.
—My God, she said. You’re like the fucking rat from that movie.
The naughty step.
I tried to eat the supper she made for me but it wouldn’t stay down. The water from the rice pot—whatever Ségo gave me I tried it. It was embarrassing at first but it felt better to have someone else there. Not until she began to clear up the rice did I begin to amble around after her. I hated secrets, the need for them—but this was my dilemma. My urge to share everything with Ségo—visiting Jerome, the baby, my fear that it concealed something else—and my instinct, due to her suspicious attitude, that I should keep it to myself.
I told her just a little about Jerome—that whenever I thought of him my heart surged, that when he had been telling me all that stuff about Eva Hand it was for my own good. That I needed to see him again—if only to hear why, since I had been such a mess, he had ever been with me. I didn’t tell her how Jerome—not Eagleback—had gotten me pregnant and how it had ended somewhere in Provence. I glossed over Ghislaine and Elias, too, but I told Ségo about the crash and how that was it, it had to be. I was in a crash.
She took this in her stride, using the tone she reserved for menu meetings at the restaurant. Yes. And? Not sure. Okay. Next.
—But what do you think? I said.
—I think you should try to eat some more, she said. Then you should get some sleep. Focus on regaining your strength. Everything else we can figure out later.
I wanted to remember my fears, if I was ever scared of anything at all. Different things at different times—an earthquake or being left behind in the city after an evacuation. Or was it the first time an insect ran over my face? Or the first time I touched myself or the first time I drank the milk in someone else’s house? I should have been scared of being a mother or not being a mother. Was I worried for my soul, that I allowed something to die inside me and therefore I didn’t have a soul or I did have one but it resembled my indistinct speech—I spoke as though I never wanted to be heard. I spoke as though nothing I said was true anyway.
If I could have seen those MRI people again I would have had some more questions. Is there any of the child left inside me? How much would there have been? Armpits and nails and knees? Gums? Was there a single moment? Would it have known and would it have panicked—a kitten in a sack? Can I have a funeral? Are you absolutely sure there’s none of it inside me? My breath tastes weird—it’s a low, sour-smelling flame—is that why? Was there milk yet, my milk, enough to fill a bottle? Will there be any side effects? Am I allowed to say that I’m relieved? Am I supposed to keep it secret? Will I get in trouble if I don’t? Am I in trouble now?
Before she went to work the next morning, I asked Ségo for a pencil and paper so I could write some letters. I didn’t know the first thing say to a child—she would have been nearly two years old—until I sat in Ségo’s amazing garden. I imagined chasing her around a sunlit yard until we were both breathless and thirsty for the lemonade that would be waiting in the kitchen. I didn’t possess a good way of describing the miraculous way flowers come to life but I got my point across.
Writing about it only increased the longing. But the unusual thing about these daydreams is that what began as a lovely day always ended the same way—sometimes it was just all blue, the grass, the house and everything. I was the luckiest woman in the world to have access to such happy memories—of course, they were not memories but that is how I viewed them.
Dear You, I went to the zoo today so I could tell you about the animals. Your father was so bad-humoured that I went alone and then my heart sank because it was snowing and the monkeys were all shut away. There were two of them behind a door but I couldn’t get a proper look. I bought some gummy bears at the kiosk and did not eat them because they were for you.
Dear You, You shouldn’t bite your nails so
much. There isn’t anything else I can think of at the moment.
Dear You, I bought you a book today and I wrote your name inside it so you’ll never lose it. I think you’ll love it. In the book there’s a girl just like you. But you’ll see that when you read it, my darling.
Dear You, I stood in the garden today and waited for you. I was trying to make amends for not being there yesterday when it was so warm. I did not see you.
Dear You, What I look like, so you will know me when we see each other next. I look like you but you would not recognise me because I have gotten so old.
Unstory
January 7th 2012, Rue de Bac. I don’t know how many times I’ve told her that Paris is colder than Dublin in winter but Mum has gotten herself tanned the colour of a house brick. Dad doesn’t waste any time letting me know what he thinks of the fake tan. He can’t bear it. His face can’t bear it. He has his I’ve-got-cancer indigestion smile. It comes from his gut and it says ‘this can all stop now’. It’s raining cats and dogs when they get to my part of town. The scrum on the métro gets Dad all worked up. He can’t believe there are no cabs. Dublin is ridden with them. He huffs and puffs and I think he is on the verge of passing out. I am sure something leaks out of me when I see where they are staying. They have ignored all my recommendations and have chosen their own accommodation, Le Meurice. Because the Ritz is closed for renovations. I’m in awe when I see it. We make plans. They want day trips. They’ve just arrived and they want to leave. They’re worried that my Paris won’t be for them. My life is full of things they don’t understand and therefore mistrust. I never wear skirts but I have worn a pretty skirt and sandals so they don’t think I’ve gone too rock & roll. They think writing about pop is a difficult phase for me. They have perfected a new look of disapproval, to which they give another outing when I show them my latest posting on The Waves.
January 8th 2012, Rue de Bac. Seeing the sights and so on. We are now intimate with all the sights.
January 9th 2012, Rue de Bac. I explain in advance that everyone has a way of expressing themselves and this apartment is mine. They don’t like the things I like. Et cetera. How was I to know that they’d love it? Dad is agape at the ceilings, relieved that his daughter should live in a place with cornices. I am agape that he is agape. And relieved, so relieved. We have obviously reached an understanding, painstakingly avoiding the obvious. Was there a conversation behind the scenes? I bet there was. Let’s all just have a nice trip, shall we? All they have to go on is what I tell them. So I don’t tell them that I’ve run out of money and I can’t afford the rent. That I stole the towels in my bathroom. That I haven’t earned any money since I arrived here. To top it all off, Mum wants to cook a proper dinner on their last night. (Did someone say they were leaving? Hooray.)
January 10th 2012, Café Breizh. The conversation starts quite idly. We have gone for lunch (Dad insists on saying ‘going for a massive crêpe’) and my parents do what parents do and they have a word with me about boyfriends. Not that I have much say in the matter. They have someone perfect for me. He doesn’t live in my kind of world. He doesn’t do music or ‘a blogging’ but he does have a share in a thriving software business. I have to convince them that Jerome does exist. I want them to see me with him, I want them to see my nitwit grin. Well, I’d love to meet your boyfriends, says Mum. Boyfriend. If we can call him that? Yes, you can call him that. Why don’t you invite him for dinner?
January 11th 2012, Café la Perle. I leave Mum to do the sales without telling her they haven’t started yet. She’ll be relieved to miss them anyway. I need to speak to Jerome about dinner. No way he’ll agree to a dinner with my parents. The thing with Jerome is it has to be his idea. Take it or leave it. I usually take it.
January 12th 2012, Rue de Bac. We’ll just buy an apple pie, says Mum. Do you think he’ll mind that I’ve bought a shop pie? I don’t think he’ll mind. A pie is a pie. Does he like cream or ice cream? Straight pie, I say. Oh, she says. There has to be something we can do that’s better than dinner on our laps in my apartment. What about a stroll in the Tuileries or a boat trip on the Seine or the café where Dad saw the steaks the size of a tea towel? Then I have to explain to Mum that my kitchen isn’t exactly geared up for banquets and she says we’ll make do. My kitchen equipment amounts to some napkins stolen from their hotel and a pitch-black dinner set that cost more than my rent. I think I was drunk when I bought the plates at the marché aux puces because I paid more than twice what were asking. I hope I was drunk. That’s a lot of money for plates. I give thanks and praise when I find a colander (no idea how that got there) and pray that whatever Mum makes will involve straining pasta. I meet Jerome for a coffee after school. It’s silly and I know it but I want him to meet Mum and Dad. I want them to see me with him. To see how far I’ve come. It doesn’t have to be mystical, or wonderful. It just has to happen. But Jerome has his head in his hands about coming for dinner. Whatever is wrong with him, it’s nobody’s fault, or I don’t care whose fault it is. He says very little, preferring to drink his coffee. Of course, one of us has to say something. Otherwise we’re just sitting there, but not Jerome, who is cold on the terrace, who has had no lunch. Not Jerome, who prefers to drink his coffee. Not Jerome, who stuffs both the little biscuits into his mouth without so much as a what-have-you, who, when I mention that I would have liked a biscuit, too, orders one for me then leaves me to eat it alone.
Daniel #5
Maybe he was tired from the early flight but Dublin was not much to get excited about. The famous beer Daniel had at the airport tasted like doo-doo water. The cab was rife with an old tractor smell and from its window Eva’s hometown seemed warped and listless compared to Chicago or London or somewhere with a decent skyline.
—Let me guess, the driver said. You’ve come to find your ancestors.
—Nope. Mine go back to the Mayflower.
—More time to tear into the the pints then.
—I just had one.
—One pint? the driver said. An accusation.
Daniel wasn’t so much tired as under a cloud. The night before he’d had dinner with Hippolyte. Daniel knew Eva had been to see him (she went straight there when they got back from Arles) so he dropped a line explaining himself. Hippolyte was childishly keen to talk. He came back straightaway to suggest Bones in the eleventh, so it would be by no means a straightforward dinner. But Daniel intended to get his money’s worth.
Hippolyte was already a little drunk when he arrived, dispensing bisous to everyone in his path, even people he didn’t know. In Daniel’s kind of mood, a libidinous drunk was perfect dinner company. Unless you reminded yourself that he was a psychiatrist you would have thought Hippolyte had come out to drink and gossip. Daniel made attempts to be subtle (his worries about La Plongeuse, a little about her and Jerome) but Hippolyte was quick to go into details. Their sessions hadn’t been frequent but they were always cordial, without being too revealing. Recently she was more concerned with putting things out of her mind.
—It is too easy to remember things poorly, he said. So she doesn’t want to remember at all. This is not very typical, but you should know that she has no interest in herself. She is always moving.
—What about Jerome? Is she staying away from him? She mentioned Eagleback, right?
Some food came and Hippolyte rummaged around in his offal without consuming any of it.
—She mention him, yes.
—Is she seeing him?
—She can see him, she has seen him, but I don’t know if she is seeing him. If she does not offer the information I do not torture her for it. So she has seen him but I do not know if she is seeing him.
Daniel made his question clearer.
—Is she fucking him?
—She could be fucking him right now, Hippolyte said. And I know Jerome, a little bit. I would not be surprised if he walke
d in here and started to fuck this carafe. He is bizarre like that, I think. Look under the table. Do you see the little crack in the floorboard? He would fuck that, too. The plate, if there is a crack in the plate. He is on it.
—Did she mention her family? Her parents. Her home life.
—Yes, said Hippolyte, who had taken to a simultaneous conversation with the waitress. He was asking to read her palm and she was telling him to eat his dinner.
—Is there anything I should know? Daniel said.
Hippolyte said he was going outside to smoke and that he would use the time to consider the question carefully. There was a Japanese girl standing on Godefroy Cavaignac and Daniel could see Hippolyte telling her a story wherein his two fingers were pointed under her chin in imitation of a revolver. Hippolyte mimed the recoil from the shot in slow motion. Now he was flapping his arms, also in slow motion. A drunken idiot, certainly, but it did seem like he was telling the truth about Eva. Then again it must have seemed as though Daniel was telling the truth too.
—Well, Hippolyte said upon his return. I think this girl has put up with a lot of difficult things in her life.
—I assume you discussed these difficult things. Isn’t that why she went to see you? Or, you think she’s suppressing something?
—I am a psychiatrist not a gypsy, Hippolyte said. But I think something happened with her parents and she does not want to acknowledge it.
—Do you think she is telling the truth?
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